The ABCs of the Wizarding World
by Blondie Pants
Summary: A series of drabbles, each corresponding to a letter of the alphabet. Mostly funny, about the next generation. Not in alphabetical order.
1. A is for Arachnid

"Uncle George, you _have_ to tell us!"

He laughed at the expressions on his little niece's faces. They were already as much trouble as he and Fred had been. "Uncle Ron would not be happy."

"But it would be _funny_."

"Oh, Mols, you are trouble."

"We _promise_ we won't do anything. We're just curious."

Dominique had not been blessed with the degree of ethereal beauty that her mother and sister possessed, but she had more than enough make it completely impossible to deny her what she _really_ wanted. George grinned. It seemed as if his little brother would be mercilessly teased by the next generation of Weasleys as well. That girly shriek was just too hard to resist.

"Swear on Merlin's wand?"

"We swear."

"All right. Spiders."

The girls looked disappointed. "Spiders?"

"Spiders."

Molly snickered. "Uncle Ron is afraid of spiders?"

"Terrified. Big, hairy ones and even tiny, leggy ones." He stood up. "Now, I have to go open the shop. You ladies want to come?"

They exchanged a quick glance. "No, thank you, Uncle George. We're going to tease the ghoul instead."

He stood up and prepared to Dissapparate. "Stay out of mischief, girls."

"We will."

Trying to conceal his grin until he was gone, George Dissapparated to his shop. Maybe he was too old to terrorize his brother, but his nieces were not.

The moment their uncle was gone, Molly turned to her cousin. "Okay, here's what I'm thinking."

xXxXxXx

"Dom, _hurry_!" Molly hissed.

Dominique ignored her, focusing on popping open the jar and not letting any of the creatures touch her. She wasn't _afraid_ of spiders, but she didn't _like _them. And she wasn't sure if this particular variety would bite. She vaguely reflected that they probably _shouldn't_ be putting possibly dangerous bugs in Uncle Ron's shoes. ("They're not _bugs_," Lucy would say.)

She shook the jar a little harder and three fat, black spiders fell out. One dead one followed. They disappeared under the laces and into the crevices of Uncle Ron's right shoe and she darted towards the door, quick as a cat.

"_You forgot the jar!"_

Dom skidded to a stop and turned to retrieve the evidence, and the pair hurried out the door and down the stairs, Trying not to wake up Rose, who was napping in Aunt Ginny's old bedroom. They put on their best innocent faces as they pushed the kitchen door open.

"Uncle Ron, will you play Quidditch with us?"

He nodded and slurped the last of his milk from his cereal bowl. "Get your cloaks, girls. I'll get the brooms and find Lucy."

"_She_ won't want to go. She wants to _read._"

Aunt Hermione, busy supervising the dishes as they washed themselves, smiled. "Reading is fun. An Ron, when you go upstairs, could you wake Rose up and bring her down? It's time for her morning snack."

Uncle Ron shared a disgusted grimace with his nieces and the three snickered.

"Your cloaks are on the rack by the back door, girls," Aunt Hermione said as their uncle left the kitchen.

The girls did not speak as they sifted through the mass of Muggle jackets and cloaks, straining their ears, hoping that it would work. If all the spiders had left the shoe and retreated to corners of the room, Uncle Ron might never find them and they'd have to devise a new—

"AIIIIEEEEEE!"

"Oh, what is it this time?" Aunt Hermione said, lowering the dishes into the sink.

Uncle Ron ran into the room, white-faced and spluttering, "sp-sp-_spider_!"

"Where, Ronald?"

He just pointed at the ceiling.

"Your room?"

He practically fell onto a kitchen chair and nodded, and Aunt Hermione left with a sigh. A few moments later, her exasperated voice floated down the stairs. "Ronald, it's just a harmless daddy longlegs."

Dom and Molly exchanged confused glances. None of the spiders they had hidden had been a daddy longlegs.

Aunt Hermione reappeared, carrying Uncle Ron's shoes. "It's dead. Put your shoes on, Ronald."

The cousins watched his shoes closely, but no fat, black body appeared. As they left, following Uncle Ron to the Quidditch field, Dom felt Molly nudging her.

"Next time," she whispered, "We'll find a tarantula. We can't lose a tarantula."


	2. B is for Bat-Bogey Hex

Ginny was flipping through the library books, searching for a hex that she could use for Lupin's assignment. It was not supposed to be harmful, but rather distract the attacker sufficiently. It could, however, be uncomfortable. Or a spell that facilitated escape. But Ginny preferred a more direct approach. They were supposed to master their spell and write an essay about its uses and disadvantages, difficulty, history, and other interesting facts about it.

After the horror that she had endured the year before, Ginny had discovered a great interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Or maybe it was the way that Lupin was teaching it. Everyone agreed that you couldn't _help_ but be interested when he was teaching. You took notes because you wanted to remember what he had said and did the assignments because you wanted to find out more of the subject.

She wanted to find a really good hex for this project. She had already searched _Jinxes to Annoy the Annoying_ and was nearly halfway through _Harmless Hexes and Joyful Jinxes_.

The jelly-legs jinx. She already knew six people were doing it. And it was boring. Everyone knew about it.

The sneezing hex. Interesting, perhaps useful. She marked the page.

The pumpkin-head jinx. Encases the subject's head in a pumpkin. Ginny giggled.

The bat-bogey hex. Caused the subjects bogeys to become enlarged, shape into bats and attack the subject. She wondered how hard it was. It was mischievous, funny and seemed effective. Who could possibly duel with bat-shaped bogies attacking their face?

She copied down all the information she needed and put the book away. Walking through the castle, looking for an empty classroom, Ginny realized that she couldn't simply practice this on her own. She needed a subject. No problem. What else were the Slytherins good for? She headed downstairs and out to the courtyards, where students were lying about in the cool October sun.

She picked a hidden corner, secluded but not so hidden that she would appear to be up to something if noticed. A group of Slytherins weren't far. She took aim.

"_Nasis Chiropteras,"_ she whispered. Nothing happened. She tried again, moving her wand a little differently.

Twenty minutes of this went by before Blaise Zabini seemed unable to shake an odd discomfort in his nose. He sniffed, rubbed at it, and made funny faces, but something was clearly bothering him. Ginny giggled.

Ten minutes after that, Goyle was attacked by uncontrollable sneezing. And soon after that, Miles Bletchley became her first full-fledged victim. Yellow-green bogies enlarged into bat-like shapes at flapped mercilessly at his face and eyes while he yelled in surprise and confusion.

Pleased with herself, Ginny hopped down from her perch and skipped back into the castle, leaving Goyle and whoever chose to help him to battle his bogies. She was pretty sure this essay would be, if not enjoyable, and least far more tolerable than most.

Fred and George were standing in a corner, heads together. Up to something, as usual. Not that she minded their troublemaking. When it embarrassed her in some way, then it became an issue.

"Darling big brothers," she called, too sweetly.

They turned.

"This is for the last month of being a pain. You have a long way to go before we're square."

"Gin, _what_—"

"_Nasis chiopteras!"_

She left her confused and very distracted brothers to wrestle the spell until it wore off. This was going to be a good year.


	3. M is for More

Most of this series will be funny. These next two installments will be quite sad. But I've very pleased with the way they both turned out, so I hope you'll read them anyway!

This is Angelina Weasley's point of view. According to the canon family tree that JK Rowling drew up, Angelina and George had two kids, Fred and Roxanne. But that meant that none of the Weasley kids had more than three, which I felt was unacceptable. After having seven of their own, Molly and Arthur deserved a herd of grandbabies. So this is NOT canon, but it's pretty damn close.

Please review, faving without reviewing makes a sad writer. Constructive criticism is especially awesome!

xXxXxXx

My mother loved Fred and Roxanne dearly. She spoiled them, overfed them, and seemed believe their façade of innocence. Molly does the same, but having raised seven children, including George, she knows they are far from innocent.

I love them more than… anything. They are my beautiful, laughing children, pure and untouched by the war. When I looked at the world, everything had scars from Voldemort's destruction. Towns were missing buildings, families were missing children, people were missing a part of themselves that had been snuffed out. My own husband was missing his twin. My children were whole, missing nothing. When I looked at them, I saw a part of this world that Voldemort had been unable to touch.

Fred and Roxy laughed and smiled when I sang silly songs, and the scariest thing in their world was the Bogeyman. They represented to me the good, safe word we had created, and I wanted to surround myself with it. We were happy, but I needed more of that tangible joy that children seemed to be made of.

I told myself that three would be enough. Three was a good-sized family, but not overwhelming. When I got pregnant again, it was with twins. Myles and Zoe.

I would take them to see my mother, where she continued to dote on them and play with them. She would exclaim how perfect they were, and in the same breath she would comment snidely about how big the family was getting. "Do you have enough money to send them to Hogwarts, or do you need help? Is your house big enough? How can you lose the baby weight, if you just keep having more?" I tried to ignore her. But as much as I tried to push it away, some of what she said stung. A part of me knew she was right, and that part tugged at the back of my mind, constantly whispering with her voice. I took them to visit Molly instead, hoping she would give me answers.

"Simply put, I had feared that we would all die in that first war," she said, rocking a sleeping Zoe. If she and Arthur died, one would not be able to survive alone. Would two? What if one of them died as well? Would three be able to protect each other, hold themselves up when times were tough? Would four? She begged Arthur for more children, more than they could afford. The children knew nothing of the looming danger, and Molly could forget it too as she chased after her mischievous sons, wiping their noses and kissing their bruises. It was all she had, but it could never be enough. Ginny was born, the first war ended, and the danger was buried. All nine of them had survived.

I found myself in an opposite, but eerily similar, frame of mind. When my children laughed and cried and raced about, I forgot the horrors we had faced. My entire world was little Zoe as she took her first steps, Roxy as she wailed and Fred as he shouted that he hadn't done _anything,_ and myself as I tried not to laugh. When I looked back, I saw death and pain and terror. I still had nightmares about it. But when I woke up, I would go into the nursery and pick up Myles and hold him tightly, proof that we had survived and the horrors I had just endured were only in my memory.

Four was a lot. The wish for controlled chaos was a joke that George and I exchanged with his siblings. I gave up working and spent every hour of my day with my children, but somehow it still wasn't enough. I still craved more laughter, more happiness than was already in a house that overflowed with it. George felt the same way, though we talked about it as little as possible. When we did, we ended up talking each other into another baby.

I miscarried that child.

I knew that it was a girl. Her name was Nicole. I am ashamed to admit that, for just a moment, I considered the unthinkable. Suicide. I desperately wanted to know what my little girl looked like—surely I would meet her in heaven? I was in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of our bed, twirling my wand between my fingers, when Zoe rushed in, as fast as she could run, having just learned how. Still in my trance, habit dictated that I slide down to the floor and allow her to bury her tear-stained face in my robes to sob. Roxanne followed moments later, shouting about something that she hadn't done. I have to admit that I didn't really care what Roxy had or hadn't done. All I cared about was that little Zoe was clinging so desperately to the front of my robes, as if I was all in the world that mattered to her. It was like she reached through my haze and pulled me back down to Earth, back to her. I knew then that, someday, I would meet Nicole, and she would cling to me in exactly the same way. But she would wait for me. I had four children that couldn't wait, and I needed them as much as they needed me.

I had thought, foolishly, that there would be no more pain. Any post-war world would seem easy, uncomplicated, compared to the hell that we had been trapped in for so long.

I accepted losing Nicole, but the pain wasn't any less, and I still wanted another baby. Cameron resulted. The first time I held him, I cried. I loved him, oh, how I loved him. But he deserved another sister.

My mother still doted on them, loved Cameron, but I could see when she looked at him that she hadn't changed her mind about my family. I think she felt that by having Cameron, I was defying her. How she flattered herself with such ideas. I didn't give a shake of Merlin's wand what she thought of the size of my family. We talked less and less, simply because I couldn't stand the way she looked at the younger ones, or the rude little remarks, badly hidden under a smile.

Molly, on the other hand, only ever doled out pies and treats, hand-knitted sweaters and kisses. She seemed amused by the size of our family, and I knew she understood. She and I were so similar, and she knew what a large family meant to a grieving woman.

I watched them all play with George one evening, and realized why I had felt such a craving to have more. My children were never meant to exist. Voldemort had intended to stamp out every blood traitor and Muggle and Muggle-born. George and his entire family were to be exterminated, like a bunch of Crups with bad tails. Watching them, I found that my constant craving for more children was gone. I had five happy, rambunctious, carefree children, and I needed no more. I told George and he laughed and kissed me. "Five is perfect," he agreed. We had five children that were anything but perfect, but our family was. Life filled every corner of our home, chasing out the horrors of our past.

When Cameron was ten months old, I discovered that I was pregnant again. We laughed for hours about the irony, and welcomed the newest addition into a home that was never going to be quiet enough for him to sleep. We let Fred and Roxanne name him, and they christened him with "Arthur," in honor of their grandfather.


	4. Q is for Questions

Wanted to work on "C" a little longer. That one will be the next sad one.

Wrote this one in about 20 minutes, so it's not great. But I loved the idea because children are just. So. Damned. Funny.

xXxXxXx

Since Lily had been born a few months before, Harry was working from home as often as he could manage. With three children under the age of five, it was just too hard for either he or Ginny to be alone with them all day. Some days, it was unavoidable, but they managed.

Of course, some days the little terrors were quite distracting.

"Why can't I fly?"

"You can. On your broom."

"No, on a real broom. Like yours. Or mum's."

"Because you're not old enough."

"Why?"

"Because you're only four, James.

"Why?"

"Because that's how many years old you are!"

"Why?"

"Because you are, James."

"Why?"

"Because your mother bought new underwear, that's why. Now go play with Al."

"Why?"

"Because I'm very busy, James! I love you, but I need to work right now!"

"Why?"

Harry almost screamed in frustration. _He's only four,_ he reminded himself. "See the clock, James? In one hour, when the little hand is on the nine again, you can bother me all you want. I'll play with you boys. But right now, Daddy needs to work."

"Okay." James darted out of the office.

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed his face. Small children were many times more exhausting than being head of the Auror department.

Ginny was in the drawing room, listening to the day's Quidditch game on the WWN and feeding Lily when James ran in.

"Mum! Mum!"

"Yes, James?"

"Daddy said I can't ride the big brooms because you bought new underwear."

She stared at her son, completely baffled. _Where on Earth did he come up with that?_

"Um…well you have your own big-boy sized broom. Maybe you could ride that."

"But it doesn't go high!"

"Well Daddy said no, so the answer is no. Go get Al and the two of you can play Quidditch in the backyard. I'll even come out to watch."

He glowered. "When can I ride the Firebolt?"

"When I don't have new underwear. Now go ask Al if he wants to play."

"Fine…"

As he went upstairs, she turned to their infant daughter. "What in the name of Merlin does my underwear have to do with flying? I'll have to ask Harry about that one."

Lily gurgled.

"Potter men are strange creatures, Lil."

xXxXxXx

If you didn't get the joke, James is four because Ginny bought new underwear, Harry liked said underwear, they had sexytime. Result: James.

The next one I'm working really hard on, but I hope to have it up soonish. Reviews are motivation!


	5. C is for Crucio

Hermione twisted and thrashed, trying to escape the pain. It was nowhere, but it was everywhere.

"_Mudblood!"_

The shrill words cut through the pain, finding her ears and driving the white-hot knives deeper.

"_Mudblood! Dirty, nasty, Mudblood! Tell me the truth! How did you get into my vault?"_

Hermione tried to scream, but no sound came out. Frustrated, terrified, in _pain_, she threw her limbs about wildly, trying to throw off the curse, tears streaming down her face.

"Hermione! Hermione! Wake _up_! It's just a dream! Hermione, you're safe!"

The pain was receding. Hermione sucked in deep breaths of cool, sweet air and opened her eyes.

She was not on the cold tile floor of the Malfoy Manor, with Bellatrix Lestrange's terrible face twisted in fury, shrieking one of the most terrible curses possible. Ron's blue eyes were scanning her face wildly, scared and sad. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed.

"Shh," he whispered, rubbing her back. "It was just a dream, Hermione.

"But it _wasn't_. It was _real_."

"A long time ago. It's not real anymore."

"She's dead, Ron. How much longer until I am rid of her?"

Ron didn't reply, just tightened his hold and let her cry into his shoulder.

Bellatrix Lestrange invaded her dreams several times a week. Sometimes it was a direct replaying of the events at the Malfoy Manor, and sometimes it was a complete fabrication. A few nights before, Hermione had dreamed of the insane woman torturing a toddler with the curliest red hair. That was probably the worst version of the nightmare that had ever come to her.

Slowly, Ron's breathing evened out again, and Hermione knew he had fallen asleep. He never could stay awake for long. She didn't mind; he was there and that's all that mattered. His arms were wrapped around her, pulling her close, a tight embrace even as he slept.

From the deep recesses of her memory, the Death Eater woman's cackle of laughter rose. Hermione shut her eyes, trying to block it out. But the effects of a Cruciatus Curse are not easily forgotten. But on top of the physical pain, was the pain of those _words_. No matter how many times Hermione heard how much she was loved and valued, that terrible word still worked its way into her mind, hiding in her brain, impossible to banish even years after she had heard it. It still made her wonder if there wasn't something different about her…about her abilities. She had been told a hundred times how clever she was, how skilled, how logical. But logic was not a wizard's skill.

Was there some truth to that word? Even though logic had helped them many times in the past, she still wondered…


	6. F is for Fight

"Ron! Please come in here and help me!" Hermione called out the door of the Burrow.

They were having a surprise birthday party for Fleur that evening. Mrs. Weasley had gone to fetch Fleur and Bill, who was distracting her until the party was ready. Audrey and Angelina were setting up decorations in the sitting room. And for some reason, it seemed to take all five of the men to entertain three small children, one of whom couldn't even walk. Which Hermione found unreasonable. So she was drafting Ron to help her clean the mountain of cooking dishes that needed to be washed.

But the first person through the door was Teddy, zooming through midair, laughing his head off and changing his nose every half second. Ron followed, grinning, wand in the air.

"Ronald! _Do not levitate the children!_"

"But it's fun, Aunt Hermione!"

Hermione was already pulling out her wand and lowering him to the floor. "Teddy, you could get hurt. Uncle Ron was being bad."

Ron hugged her from behind and nuzzled her bushy hair. "You could punish me later," he whispered.

"Teddy, please go outside and keep playing," Hermione said in a sweet voice. Teddy recognized that voice and ran.

The moment his heel disappeared, Hermione whipped around and slapped her boyfriend.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Levitating Teddy—he could get seriously hurt!—and then making a joke like that in front of him!"

"So I can make a joke like that not in front of him?"

"You really are thick, Ronald."

"So what if I levitated the kid? He was loving it."

"What if you dropped him?"

"Just like falling off a broomstick."

"No, it isn't."

"Why not?"

"Because it _isn't_."

Ron smirked, smelling victory. "You don't have a reason."

"If he fell off a broomstick, then he did it himself. He got on the broom, knowing he could fall, and he can learn not to fall next time."

"But he asked—"

She raised her voice, cutting him off. "If you dropped him, what does he learn? Don't play with Uncle Ron?"

"A broom would probably be higher off the ground."

"Do the dishes, please, Ronald."

"We'll have to do them again after we eat. Why not do them all then?"

"Because we clean as we go. Then the kitchen never gets unbearably messy. Now, _wash, _please."

"But I don't know the spell."

"Then _figure it out_," she said, pointing to Mrs. Weasley's book of household spells, sitting on a shelf with the cookbooks. "Or do it by hand." She pointed her wand back to the cutting board with fruit and a knife on it, which began chopping so fast that the fruit got more squished than chopped.

For a while, the only sound in the kitchen was the water pouring over the dishes and the chopping of Hermione's knife.

At some point, Hermione glanced over to make sure he was doing it right. A pile of dishes were piled on the counter, dripping water. As she watched, he picked on up, held it under the stream of water coming from his wand, swished around the water, dumped it out, and put it on top of the pile.

Horrified, Hermione watched, speechless, as he did this with two more dishes.

"Ronald! _Are you only using water_?"

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"_Soap_! So the dishes get _cleaned_! You wouldn't use just water to wash your hands, would you?"

"Uh…"

"Nevermind, I'm sorry I asked. I can't believe you just rinsed all those dishes without a drop of soap!"

"Who's going to know, Hermione? Who cares? We're not eating off of these dishes!"

"But we'll need them when we _cook with them_ again!"

"So we'll deal with it when we do!"

"We're done cooking for today! All the food residue will get stuck on the dishes, and it will take three times as long to wash it off when we want to use the dish again!"

"Which is why I rinsed it off!"

Neither of them had noticed the audience that had appeared. Mrs. Weasley had returned with Fleur and Bill, who had not been greeted by the whole family jumping out and shouting "Surprise!" Everyone was crowded into the doorway, watching Hermione and Ron.

"I rinsed the food off of the dishes so it would be easier to wash next time you use it!"

"So you're just going to store a dirty dish in the cupboard?"

"It doesn't look dirty to me!"

"That's because you're not _looking_! You _never _look! You _never_ pay attention, you _never_ offer to help until I force you, and you do a shoddy job and complain all the way."

"Hermione, will you marry me?"

"While I was in here, working, you were outside, playing with—I…what?"

The room was dead silent. Mrs. Weasley's mouth had dropped open and George was trying very hard to laugh silently.

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do than spend the rest of my life arguing with you, you impossible woman. I love you. Will you marry me?"

She slapped him again. This time, her hand landed with a sharp crack and a red handprint started to appear. "You think you can derail an argument just by _proposing_? Well I have news for you, Ronald Weasley, I am not some lovesick little girl who's going to swoon at your feet. If that's all you think of me then you can sod off, because I want nothing to do with someone who only wants _that_ out of marriage!"

"You're right. That was unfair. I'm sorry, Hermione."

She stopped and blinked at him for a moment. "You what?"

"I'm sorry. You are absolutely right. You are beautiful and strong and _brilliant_. Every day you astound me and remind me that you are so much _better_ than any other woman in the world. Because you _didn't_ just stop yelling at me, kiss me and say yes. You said 'No, I am better than that.' And you know what, Hermione? You are. You are bossy and confusing and demanding, but all of that is because you _know_ that you are the most brilliant person in the room. It's not out of arrogance, it's just true. Hermione, will you please boss me around and yell at me for the rest of our lives?"

The kitchen was absolutely silent for about twenty seconds. The ghoul upstairs banged a pipe and groaned and everyone jumped. The spell that no one had cast was broken.

"Do the dishes properly, please, Ronald."

"Yes, Hermione." He turned back to the sink for soap and began clumsily trying to wash the dishes. The rest of the family started moving, outside to set up tables and chairs or upstairs. Hermione watched him struggle with the first one before shooting a stream of sudsy water out of her wand and over the dishes.

"You just use _Scourgify._ But you have to think about sudsy water and clean dishes while you do it, or the spell just vanishes the food." Ron slowly took his hands away from the dish, which stayed floating in the air, with the soapy water swishing back and forth. It finished and floated over to the counter, gleaming. He pointed his wand at a mixing bowl, which began to do the same thing.

"Thank you."

"Yes, I'll marry you."

He snapped his head up and looked at her in shock. "Really?"

She pointed her wand at a dishtowel, which began to dry the first dish, and looked up into his infuriatingly handsome freckled face. "I will marry you, Ronald Weasley."

"May I kiss you now?"

"You may."


End file.
